Elephantom
Chicken Broth Paragon
The Stygian Man
A faint commotion in the night, coming from the outside the forest lines. The bushes split apart, rending to the will of a man— he was no stranger to the wild. He bent down to watch, flat against the ground and not mindful about the grit.
He spied as the bandits passed by, laughing between themselves and sharing insights on their recent exploit. The merchants behind them were tied up, packed tight into their own wagons, and given a few blessings of fortune. Ironic, consider that a share of the caravan's men were symposian clergymen. Among the caravan, the armed guards got it the worst, because they held a wisdom of arms. They'd been smart enough to accept their fates, complying, and shutting their gobs before they could spout out bullshit. The rest of the merchants followed their lead, quiet and dismal as they were strung up. He knew, they knew, the bandits knew: a few rolls of fat can do scant little against a blade.
Sulayman watched the proceedings with detached interest, fascinated but apathetic. Once the bandits were gone— highwaymen, why doth thou pursue fairest of thine merchants?— he climbed down his vantage point, feet sliding and scraping against the barren grounds. The stone road, ill maintained judging by the weeds growing from the cracks and uneven tablets, led him to the caravan. The wagons were deprived of their wheels and fortune, driven to a side of the road. Standing out, in the middle, was a grand coach big enough to half a dozen men. The leader's, he supposed.
The horses whinnied as he came nearer, a bit scared, but likely just annoyed. He opened the door of the coach and peeked inside. The merchants were muzzled with rope from top to bottom, some queer punishment no doubt, sulking on the seats and the floor. They looked like a hapless lot, losers of the society. Bloody whiteskins. Pathetic, all of them. They took a few moments to register his presence. Confusion, to astonishment, to joy.
They exclaimed for help, gags giving their voice a muffled, slurred quality. Sulayman observed their desperation. Pathetic fools indeed. “What brings you to such conditions, men?” he asked, arching his brows.
They answered with strangled shrieks, right next to his ear. The pinks were not only ignorant idiots, they were also very loud. The Stygian winced, shook his head, and leaned forward to remove the bindings from one of their mouth. Their chief, he presumed. He wore the most dyed robe. “We were robbed!” the chief cried. Of course you were. You deserve it after all, whiteskin.
“That I can see,” Sulayman mused. “Why did they do it?”
The chief's mouth hinged open, having gotten a good look at him. “Barbarian!”
He shifted to one side, letting his hammer catch the moon's light. “Is there any problem?”
The merchant flinched, cowed by the visible gesture. “N-no sir, I meant the barbarians who attacked us,” he stammered.
Sulayman smiled, leaning against the frame of the wagon's door. “As fate wills it, friend. I will do as I ought to, but what do you want?” I want to slit your throat, cur, save you from your own misery.
There was a glimmer of hope in the merchant's eyes. “I implore you to help us, Stygian!” he urged.
“Very well,” Sulayman said. “Before you were robbed of your monies,” and your dignity, “what goods were you carrying?”
The merchant's eyes almost popped out, bulging with outrage. His fear was greater, however. “Spice,” he said, through gritted teeth, “silk, and weapons.”
Sulayman grinned. “Good for business, eh?”
The chief paused, stuttered, and said, “Well, yes, ah, I suppose.”
“What was your destination?”
The merchant gulped. Tension was rife in the air. “Calun,” he said.
Why bother? “Now, tell me man,” he began, paused. The Stygian shuffled closer until he was inside the coach, then he glared at the chief, all traces of good humour gone. “Why should I save you?”
The merchant tried to make himself smaller. “I will pay you for the troubles,” he said, hesitating between the words.
“You will?”
He jumped, eager to grab at the chance of freedom. “Yes, yes!”
“Is this your first time?”
The merchant blinked. “What?”
Stop screaming, cur. “Your first time getting robbed?”
The merchant nodded. “Oh, y-yes, sir.”
Sulayman gave a ponderous nod, inching back out of the wagon. “Know, man, that greed has no place in my mind, not right now, not ever, I hope. And what you can give, I can take far more easily, and thrice the amount too.” He stared at the chief, who was stunned into silence. “Besides, weren't you just robbed?”
The merchant tried to answer, and so did his compatriots, huddled together inside the vehicle— the only sound there was came from the neighing horses and the steps of the Stygian as he jogged away. Sulay dashed back up the small precipice, and emerged with his gelding in tow. He mounted the beast with a jump, spurring it down to the road, on the direction the bandits had taken. As the lone scream of the chief soon died down, fading to the distant winds, he grinned once more.
The first bandit to notice him gawked for a good while before screaming— and got a knife for his trouble. It went through open mouth and got out just as quick. He went limp, vomiting out blood on the horse. The plug panicked and darted into the forest, taking the dying man with him. The ones in the distant front went unaware, too drunk on alcohol and triumph to notice the commotion behind them. Aside from a gurgle, birds, and laughing men, nothing else got to the ambiance.
Sulayman sent a hand running through the mane of his horse, bidding it to stay silent. He frowned. A single man against six. Slim chances, but I've nothing to lose and everything to gain.
The man who'd been beside the last one threw a lazy swing with his sword, attempting to surprise him. He let it curve across him, cutting a thin slash across his shoulder, and threw his hammer down on the bandit's retreating arm. The man let out a yelp, lips bending into a grimace. The Stygian wasted no moment, bashing his forehead in with the blunt end of his maul. The sound, of bone cracking and brain spilling, attracted a big man with an pock-marked face, the last on the rear. He jumped with spear in hand, snarling. Sulay forced himself to face the weapon, letting the iron scrape past his armour. He looped back his arm and then, with a grunt, brought it crashing down on his head.
Blood, brain, and bits of the cranium flew everywhere.
By the time the goon's pulp hit the ground, the others were already nearby. The tiniest of them charged at him with a scream, spear pointed ahead. The pick of Sulayman's hammer tore into the man, shearing off his nose. He fell off his horse, hollering as he dashed his skull against the piss-poor road. Should've paid your taxes, cur.
“Ha!” Sulay cackled. Gripping the sable handle of his hammer, the other hand on the pommel, he approached the last remaining man. A moment of indecision later and the highwayman decided to run, the largest sack of loot stowed away on his mare. A knife to the back fixed his cowardice, the force and shock shoving him to the ground. Sulayman got off from his gelding, reached down to the man, and tore the dagger from his back. The man let out a groan, his last breath— the desperate life in his eyes faded, replaced by still motion.
Sulayman mounted the gelding again, having cleaned his weapons and nabbed their plunder, and made haste for Calun.
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